


Sen

by charivari



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Character(s), Androids, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), Mild Gore, Murder, Organ Transplantation, Organ transportation, Organized Crime, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5693224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charivari/pseuds/charivari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Sen, a Sentient Organ Transport Droid, created and employed by a criminal alien syndicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sen

Sentient Organ Transport Droid, Sen for short, as his name suggested, had been built for the sole purpose of transporting organs throughout the galaxy. His body had been specifically designed to host matter from various species, storing them safely until their surgical removal. Sen could survive such procedures far more easily than his organic predecessors, who most often perished on the operating tables. Sen had completed fifty missions without incident, always returning to Klor in optimum health, ready to undertake the process again.

Klor fell under the dominion of the Chimeran Empire. It was joked the war-mongering species had conquered it as a part of a training exercise. Klor lacked the natural resources to be useful. The only Chimerans stationed on Klor now were a handful of officials. They allowed the criminal underworld of Klor to run their operations for a cut of the profit. This included the organ trade, the reason for which Sen had been created.

His creator, Praxis, was a Huth surgeon, employed by the most notorious and influential crime boss, Oxid Zjor. Huth made excellent doctors due to their four dexterous arms and large analytic eyes. He had not made Sen in his image, modelling his outward form on a juvenile Chimeran, lithe and leonine, with a small pointed beard that grew more voluminously in maturity.

This form allowed him to travel more easily through Chimeran-controlled territory. They were also clients of organ replacement. Their rivals, the Scylla, exuded a certain level of radiation that caused deterioration over time. The Chimerans were open for anything that kept them in physical peak, swapping a damaged heart with a synth-heart was an easy decision to make.

For other species on the Chimeran-aligned planets procedures were merely cosmetic. Sen's latest mission had been transporting a Danean pheromone gland to a diplomat in Joa. Callix already had twelve wives but thought the gland necessary to gain a thirteenth. Sen never questioned the decisions of the client. He was only the carrier, carrying out his role in silence then returning to Klor.

Rajal was waiting when he emerged from stasis-sleep. The emerald green Klorian female was Praxis' assistant. She scanned Sen's internals, her bottom two eyes, one brown, one green, trained on the readings while her top two eyes, both blue, looked Sen in the face,

"How was Joa, Sen?" she asked, “I hear it’s beautiful.”

Joa, a planet covered in water and home to numerous floating hotels. It was the favored destination of the wealthy and planetary nobility.

“I am ill-equipped to answer,” Sen replied, “I only saw inside the surgical room.”

Rajal laughed. She always found his analytic answers amusing.

“And what was that like?” she asked.

“It was all blue, likely to impose a sense of tranquility,” Sen answered, “Logical for the room’s purpose.”

“That sounds nice,” Rajal smiled, “Go on.”

Sen obeyed. Rajal always for details like this. She had never been off Klor. The macabre and gory didn’t bother her either. There was a reason why she was Praxis’ assistant.

“The operating table was padded. Comfortable. The surgical implements were appropriately sharp and hygienically cleaned...”

“I can see,” Rajal interrupted, “You haven’t picked up any infections.”

“Where is Master?” Sen asked as Rajal switched off the monitoring tablet.

“He’s having a conference with Zjor,” Rajal made a face, “He should be in soon.”

It wasn’t unusual for Praxis to keep Zjor updated on their progress. The crime boss took particular interest in the highest earning of his schemes. He had given Praxis an entire building to use as a base of operations. Praxis, preferring secrecy, only used the underground levels for his research. The upper levels were used as living quarters and administration. This included the room Praxis used for conference calls with Zjor.

Sen and Rajal were currently in one of the underground rooms. The very room in which Sen had been created and first come online. It housed all the equipment specific for Sen’s maintenance and this was why he was always brought here after every assignment.

It was longer before Praxis joined them, shimmering black lab coat fluttering with his sharp strides. He wasn’t the type for small talk, only action. One eye roved critically over Sen as he addressed Rajal,

“How is he?” he demanded, mandibles clicking with each syllable.

“All systems at optimal efficiency,” Rajal answered calmly. She was accustomed to his lack of greeting.

“Good,” Praxis replied, clasping four arms behind his back, “We’ve been invited to a party.”

Rajal’s usually unflappable face wavered in surprise,

“All of us?”

“Yes,” Praxis said curtly, clicks falling into silence with a sense of finality.

He was a man who expected obedience. Even Zjor saw him more of a business partner than a subordinate. They had met while serving in the Chimeran army, Zjor as a hired mercenary, Praxis as a medic. Zjor had lost his arm to a laser-cannon during the invasion of Prath. On Zjor’s own request, Praxis had mounted the Skruller’s own gun to the stump left behind.

After settling on Klor, Zjor contacted Praxis with an offer to work for him. Praxis quickly accepted, disillusioned with the role of medic. The partnership had proved successful. Praxis had offered to clone Zjor an arm made of flesh but he refused. His gun-arm was part of his notoriety, a symbol of terror.

Praxis never questioned the morality of his work. Nor did he question the morality of having Zjor as a benefactor. But if he hadn’t wanted to attend the other’s party he would have refused. Zjor likewise wouldn’t have been insulted. Praxis was known recluse.

Sen wondered what reason would have prompted him to accept.

Rajal meanwhile was staring down at her attire. It was the same fabric as Praxis’ coat, self-cleaning, functional. She looked up with dismay,

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Praxis’ mandibles clicked in irritation,

“Then go buy something,” he told her brusquely.

Rajal’s expression turned sly,

“On the company account,” she asked, “It is a business expense.”

Praxis growled, mandibles clicking in unison. Rajal stared him down, lips pouted.

“Very well,” he grumbled.

Rajal grinned as she grabbed hold of Sen’s arm,

“I’ll take Sen with me.”

“I was going to run some tests,” Praxis told her with annoyance.

“You can run tests later,” Rajal said cheerfully, pushing Sen out the door.

Sen was always surprised that Praxis tolerated Rajal’s insolence. He would never dare speak so presumptuously to his Master. But Rajal always got away with it without discipline. She was a capable assistant, able to take Praxis’ gruff mannerisms with good humor. They shared a mutual tolerance that allowed them to work well together.

He had also witnessed them mating on one occasion. He had woken unexpectedly in the midst of recharge and went in search of his creator. He had found him with his lab coat parted and Rajal nuzzled against his chest, his mandibles clicking almost lyrically in contentment. Until he had happened to open his eyes and notice Sen watching them. Praxis had reprimanded him quite severely, ordering him never to leave the recharge bed without permission.

Sen presumed a sexual relationship was another factor in why Praxis relented to Rajal buying a new outfit at his expense and taking Sen with her.

She dragged him through the streets of Klora, Klor’s capital city. Eventually she settled on a Hethusian orange dress that complimented her green skin.

After its purchase they made their way back to the base. Rajal went to get changed, sending Sen to the lab to pull Praxis from whatever he was working on. The Huth had no sense of time when he worked. He was likely go without nourishment without Rajal to remind him.

Sen hated disturbing the Master. It always angered him. But this time he took Sen’s interruption with less criticism, seizing his surgical kit and ordering Sen to follow him out.

“Why are you taking your equipment Sir?” Sen asked as he tried to keep pace with the Huth.

“Work, what else,” Praxis replied, “Work.”

His mandibles clicked in a cheerful tone. The Huth always brightened at the prospect of work to be done. But he was quick to revert back to grouchiness. Sen knew if he enquired about the particulars of the work, Praxis would snap at him. So he kept quiet as they joined Rajal in her new dress.

“How do I look?” she asked Praxis.

“Fine,” Praxis said impatiently, “Let’s depart.”

Rajal pouted,

“Aren’t you going to change?” she asked.

“Why would I?” Praxis said with a hint of indignation.

His attire held a certain amount of pride. He considered it the most efficient thing to wear.

“No reason,” Rajal knew sometimes it wasn’t worth the argument. Her multiple eyes swept to the kit Praxis was holding, “Why are you bringing that?”

Praxis threw up his free hands in exasperation,

“Why must you two ask so many questions?”  

Sen wilted as Praxis’ eyes fell on him. He had only asked one question.

Rajal folded her arms rebelliously,

“You said it was a party.”

Praxis turned to her and spread his teeth in a menacing smile,

“Consider it a _work_ party,”

He stormed towards the front entrance, expecting the others to follow him. Sen went willing, Rajal trailing more grudgingly behind.

Zjor’s large home showed he wasn’t one for living in the shadows. He had little to fear from the authorities. He paid good money for them to turn a blind eye. The Klorian elite didn’t mind moving in the same circles as the Skruller. He had gained their favor through lavish parties. The rooms were filled with such esteemed guests by the time they arrived. Sen even spied the Chimeran governor as they were lead to Zjor by his Klorian butler.

Zjor was seated on a chair so grand it could have called a throne. He had the typical Skruller build, broad, muscular. Horns grew in a crown on his bald reptilian head. He was dressed in Klorian billowing robes. The head of the gun poked menacingly from his sleeve. A Klorian female was pressed against his flesh arm. She fell back as Zjor rose in greeting.

“Old friend, it is good to see you in person,” he shook Praxis’ two right hands in unison, “Rajal, a pleasure.”

He moved to give her hand a squeeze. Rajal smiled. Sen presumed out of politeness, not happiness to see him. She had a low opinion of the Skruller, as did most Klorians. The Skruller had come to their planet as part of the invading forces. He had reportedly shed more Klorian blood in the take-over than any Chimeran soldier. He made himself King and took what he wanted with no fear of retribution. He was a tyrant, untouchable, greedy and merciless.

Though Rajal disliked him, she knew it was better to serve him without question. She had a better life than the other Klorian women who had been sold off-world as pleasure slaves. She was in a position of security and wasn’t about to risk it by showing her disgust for Zjor in person.

Zjor didn’t scrutinize her smile too much in any case. His yellow eyes moved to Sen. He didn’t greet him or offer his hand. Sen was only a machine to the Skruller. When Zjor smiled at him, it was not out of friendliness, only avarice for what Sen could do for him. Though what that was in particular this night Sen remained unaware.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Zjor said aloud before leaning something in Praxis’ ear.

Praxis nodded.

“Come on you two,” he gestured to Sen and Rajal.

They followed him into the throng of party-goers. Sen looked back over his shoulder at Zjor. Behind him the Klorian woman remained seated. There was a curious look of worry on her face. When Zjor turned back to her, it swiftly changed into a bright smile.

Sen had little time to ponder the peculiarity. He had found himself swarmed by guests. They knew who he was of course. Praxis was the only Huth on Klor and quite infamous and the juvenile Chimeran with him could only be S.O.T.D. he had created. They stared at Sen with open fascination.

“So life-like,” cooed the Klorian woman on the Chimeran governor’s arm, “Is he Chimeran downstairs as well?”

Her question created laughter amongst the guests. Praxis however was unamused,

“If you are referring to genitalia,” he said dryly, “Yes.”

“How thoughtful,” the Klorian woman purred, “Do you use him for _other_ things?”

Praxis’ mandibles clicked in annoyance,

“He was built for the purpose of organ transport. That is his only function.”

“What a shame,” the Klorian woman sighed, “I’m sure he would be very profitable as a pleasure-bot.”

“Forgive Denai, Doctor,” the Chimeran governor said over the resulting laughter, “She’s horribly perverse.”

Denai rolled her eyes,

“Oh Cuthso, don’t act like you wouldn’t let him in our bed,” she looked to Rajal, “Have you ever?”

“Oh no,” Rajal shook her head with a smile, “Sen is like a little brother to me.”

“Nonsense,” Praxis snorted, “He’s a machine. For organ transport. Not prostitution.”

The harshness in his voice silenced the crowd. They eyed him with a sudden wariness. Rajal leapt to sooth them.

“You’ll have to forgive Praxis, he’s very uh… enthusiastic about his research.”

Praxis glared at her. Rajal ignored him.

“If there are any more questions, please direct them to me.”

“That won’t be necessary,” came Zjor’s voice.    

The crowd aside to let the Skruller through. He had the Klorian woman snared around his arm. 

“I’ve arranged a little pre-dinner entertainment,” he said, “If you would all follow me.”

No one dared argue with him. Zjor led them to a circular room. It was grey and unhappy, with weapons mounted on the walls. Sen supposed it was some kind of training room. As soon as the guests piled in, Zjor thrust the Klorian woman in his grasp onto the floor.

“I say Zjor,” the heavyset Mayor of Klora exclaimed tremulously, “What is the meaning of this?”

Zjor raised his gun-arm at the woman. She gazed up at him hatefully.

“This piece of _j’bla_ is a rebel, Sutoh,” he announced, “Sent to spy on me.”

There was a collective gasp. Sen looked at the woman in fascination. A member of the Free Klor Alliance, an organization dedicated to freeing Klor from Chimeran control. It was said they received financial backing from the Scylla.

“Are you certain?” Cuthso asked, face now decidedly grave.

“Oh yes,” Zjor hissed, “My cameras caught her trying to hack into my files. I expect when she got the information she wanted, she planned to assassinate me.”

Before anyone else could speak, the rebel found her voice,

“You deserve to die you murderer!” she shouted, “Klor belongs to the Klorian people. Not a twisted pieces of slime like you!”

“Oh shut up,” Zjor said calmly, firing his gun at her head which exploded in a spray of blood.

There was stunned, horrified silence. Then Denai screamed and fainted.

Unperturbed, Zjor stepped over the rebel’s body with a smile.

“Doctor,” he gestured to Praxis, “I require your assistance.”

Praxis came forward without hesitation,

“It was the heart you wanted,” he said.

Zjor nodded. Praxis bend down next to the corpse and opened his surgical kit.

“Rajal,” he said, ripping the woman’s dress to expose her chest, “Bring the droid.”

Sen looked at Rajal. Her expression was tense. She blinked rapidly, forcing emotion off her face. Expression now blank, she gestured for Sen to move with her towards Praxis and the corpse.

Sen removed the Chimeran breast-plate he wore as part of his guise. He lay down next to the dead woman and opened his chest compartment.

“What is he doing?” Mayor Sutoh asked Zjor in alarm.

“I thought the heart of a rebel would make an excellent gift to the High Commander,” Zjor answered, “I’m sure he’d like to know we in Klor are doing our best to stop any dissension.”

There were muted murmurs of agreement. Cuthso, unconscious Denai in his arms, congratulated the Skruller.

“Good work Zjor,” he said, “The Higher Commander will undoubtedly be pleased with your efforts.”

Zjor nodded smugly.

There were noises of disgust as Praxis removed the heart from the rebel’s body. With Rajal’s assistance, the heart was placed inside Sen’s chest. The chest compartment closed shut and Praxis rose to his feet. He brought a blank cloth from pocket, the same fabric as his coat and began cleaning the blood off his hands. 

“That’s the show my friends,” Zjor said, “Time for dinner.”

None of the guests looked particularly famished. But they gladly took Zjor’s order to leave the room.

Praxis offered his cloth to Rajal who took it mutely. Sen moved to don his breast-plate as Zjor took hold of Praxis’ two right hands once more.

“Thank you my friend,” he said, “Will you stay to eat?”

A small murmur of protest escaped Rajal’s lips.

“We will take our leave if you don’t mind,” Praxis said, “We need to prep the droid for departure.”

“Of course,” Zjor flashed a feral smile in Rajal’s direction, “Some other time perhaps.”

“I can’t believe he killed that girl in front of all of us,” she said once they out of his sight.

“It had to be done,” Praxis replied

Rajal’s lip quivered,

“She was just trying to help my people,” she protested.

“Don’t be foolish, Rajal,” Praxis said sternly, “If her kind actually succeed in liberating Klor, you and I would be executed as collaborators.”

Rajal winced,

“I know but…”

“It’s just another day’s work,” Praxis interrupted, “Nothing more.”

Rajal sighed deeply,

“Just another day’s work,” she echoed.

Sen was silent. With a rebel’s heart inside him, it didn’t feel ordinary. It felt like a great change had occurred. To what it would lead, he could only fathom.


End file.
